


Master of Disguise

by earlgreytea68



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lestrade throws a Halloween party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master of Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, a much lighter Halloweenfic than the previous one ended up being. Thank you to arctacuda for the excellent beta; to flawedamythyst for the Britpick; and to missalline for the drawings! To see the fabulous illustrations, go here: http://earlgreytea68.livejournal.com/381181.html
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

“Um,” said Lestrade, awkwardly, which was very uncharacteristic of him, and John looked up from the coffee he was fixing for himself, confused. The case was nearly over, Sherlock sniping his way through the final explanations of the evidence, and John needed the coffee for the last desperate push until they could go home and he could tumble into bed and sleep. They were in the homestretch, and things had gone well, and Sherlock had done nothing to provoke any sort of civil suit anywhere, so he didn’t know why Lestrade had gone to all the effort to seek him out alone. 

Lestrade looked anxious and nervous and uncertain, and John drew his eyebrows together and said, in concern, “You okay?”

“I’m having a party,” Lestrade blurted out. 

John blinked. That was not what he had been expecting. “A party?”

“Yeah. Just a little thing. Halloween’s coming up, I thought…a fancy dress party…now that the divorce has gone through…”

_Oh_ , thought John. _A this-is-my-life-now party._ He smiled at Lestrade and said, “Excellent. When is it?”

“Two weeks, I think. Saturday after next. Do you have plans?”

“We never have plans,” John remarked, drily. “We can’t make plans in case a good murder crops up that we’d miss, God forbid. I’ve tried to convince him that maybe we could witness a good murder in the South of France, but he’s not buying it. So anyway, no plans, we’ll be there. Fancy dress, did you say?”

“Well, yeah, I thought it’d be fun, but I know that he’s Sherlock, so…”

“I’ll get him into fancy dress. It’s Halloween, after all. Surely he’ll want to dress up as a murder victim or something.”

***

“What did Lestrade want you for?”

“Mmmph,” said John, because he was trying to sleep. 

“At New Scotland Yard,” continued Sherlock. “When you went to get your last cup of coffee. What did he say to you?” Sherlock shook him impatiently. “Wake _up_ , you just had coffee not an hour ago.”

“Sherlock,” said John, in exasperation, turning onto his back. “It has been thirty-two hours since I last slept. That cup of coffee isn’t having much impact right now. And I don’t even know how long it’s been for you, because I know you’re lying to me about the last time you slept. Now take off your clothes and get into bed because we are going to _sleep_ now.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Yes, you are. You’re overtired. If you’d lie down you would sleep.”

Sherlock frowned. “I am not a toddler,” he insisted. 

_All evidence to the contrary_ , thought John. “If you come to bed I’ll tell you what Lestrade wanted.”

Sherlock huffed and fidgeted and finally gave in and disappeared into the bathroom. When he reemerged in pajama pants and T-shirt, John was deep into a doze, barely registering him crawling onto the bed next to him. 

“Do not even tell me you’ve fallen asleep,” commanded Sherlock, imperiously, and John jumped. 

“Oh my God, I _hate_ you,” he said, as Sherlock settled across from him, bow of a mouth pursed with displeasure, as if _he_ were the one who had a right to be annoyed. 

“You are extraordinarily crotchety when you don’t get enough sleep,” said Sherlock. “Now what did Lestrade say?”

“He’s having a party,” John answered, around a yawn, and closed his eyes. 

“A _party_? Why would he do that?”

“You don’t understand why anyone would ever want to have a party, because you don’t like people,” John pointed out, sleepily. 

“I like _you_ ,” said Sherlock, after a moment. 

John smiled a bit. “Good, because you’re going to go to this party with me.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, briefly. 

_That was easier than I thought it was going to be_ , thought John, with exhausted relief, and then Sherlock gathered him closer and immediately started snoring in his ear. “I told you so, you annoying git,” said John, out loud, even though he knew Sherlock couldn’t hear it, because it was nice to be able to say it every once in a while. 

***

Everything in John’s life seemed better the next evening when he rolled out of bed after fourteen satisfying hours of sleep. Sherlock was up already, and John didn’t want to think about how little he’d probably slept, but he seemed to be in a good mood. He was playing violin, lively violin, danceable violin. And when he saw John, he lit up with such delight that John remembered why he put up with everything he put up with. 

“Good morning-slash-night!” Sherlock said, with enormous enthusiasm, and leaped energetically over the coffee table to give John a thorough kiss hello. 

“You got up on the right side of the bed, didn’t you?” remarked John, when Sherlock let him breathe. 

“ _My_ side of the bed is always the right side of the bed. Well. Not technically. It’s the _correct_ side of the bed,” said Sherlock. 

“Has there been another murder already?” asked John, suspicious of all this effusion. 

Sherlock grinned at him. “No. Just, the sun is shining, Mycroft is nowhere to be seen, and you snuffle adorably when you sleep. You should make us something to eat, and then we should go for a walk. I will deduct for you.” Sherlock punctuated this speech with another kiss, light and feathery and promising, before moving away from him. 

John was a bit bemused. Every so often, Sherlock was like this with him, bubbly with joy, and John didn’t quite know the recipe to cause these moods, but he loved them when they came. “If you’re very good I’ll let you have your way with me tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t answer that with words, just smiled at him and started playing the violin again. 

“Maybe you can dress as Mr. Fezziwig,” John remarked, as he headed into the kitchen to survey the state of things. 

The violin stopped, although it took a second for John to realize it because he was busy remembering that they’d been on a case for several days previous and there was nothing truly edible in the house. 

He turned to call to Sherlock, found him standing in the doorway frowning, and said, “How about you wine and dine me?”

“What did you mean by that?” demanded Sherlock. 

John blinked, confused by the Sherlockian mood shift and wishing he could get the Sherlock from ten seconds earlier back. “Sorry, I thought we were in flirty-and-adorable mode today. Are we not? Don’t wine and dine me, then, let’s just go for a Chinese. Or a curry, maybe, I could go for a curry.”

“Oh, _food_ , such a waste of time,” said Sherlock, vibrating with impatience. “The Mr. Fezziwig thing, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, of course, you’ve probably deleted Dickens. Or never read him. Fezziwig is the bloke from _A Christmas Carol_ who throws the big party during the Christmas Past bit. He plays the violin. Wait, maybe he doesn’t, maybe that’s just a movie I saw of it once. I don’t know. It was just a bad joke, forget about it.” John tried to cajole Sherlock back into his good mood, kissing his collarbone. 

“Why would I dress as Mr. Fezziwig?” Sherlock persisted. 

“For Lestrade’s party. I didn’t mean it seriously, Sherlock, honestly, it was just a joke.” John nosed underneath Sherlock’s jaw. He’d apparently shaved when he’d woken, whenever that had been. 

Sherlock stepped backward, away from John’s ability to caress him, looking stricken. “Is Lestrade’s party _fancy dress_?”

“Yes. Did I forget that bit? Sorry.”

“How could you have forgotten that?” Sherlock practically shrieked at him. “It is clearly the _most important detail_ about the party!”

“I was tired,” John defended himself, annoyed. “I was half asleep.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to wear a _costume_ to this party.”

“Of course I do. Everyone’s going to wear one. What’s this all about, anyway? Usually you love an opportunity to show off what a master of disguise you are. You can go as a priest, if you want, I know you’ve already got that costume.”

Sherlock looked displeased. “That is a _disguise_ , not a _costume_. It is used for very serious case work, not…larking about at a _party_.”

“Fine,” said John, mildly. “We’ll rent you a costume, then. Now can we go to dinner? I cannot remember the last time either of us ate.”

“I do not dress up,” Sherlock proclaimed, imperiously. 

John snorted. “Come off it. You dress up every single day. Look at you.” He gestured to Sherlock’s outfit, the shirt tailored to an indecent fit, the narrow sweep of his trousers. “Now. Dinner. Smile.”

Sherlock looked glum. He scowled pointedly, and then reluctantly turned the edges of his lips up in a facsimile of a smile. 

John grinned at him, thinking, _There is something very wrong with you, John Watson, that makes you love this man._ “Thank you,” he said, and kissed first one upturned corner of Sherlock’s mouth, then the other. 

Sherlock walked him backward, into the kitchen counter, setting the violin down behind him and trapping him there, flush against him, his eyes dark and his voice even darker when he said, “How hungry are you?”

“I am _starving_ ,” said John, and pulled him in for a kiss. 

***

“I brought you a gift,” John called from the bedroom, dropping it on their bed. 

“Is it that dead pigeon that was on the corner?” asked Sherlock, eagerly, rushing into the room. 

John rolled his eyes. “No.”

Sherlock looked disappointed. “Oh. Is it a _normal_ gift?”

“It’s a costume,” said John. “For Lestrade’s party.”

Sherlock went from disappointment to displeasure in no time flat. “I told you that I don’t wear costumes!”

“You are going to like this costume.”

Sherlock folded his arms. “I strongly doubt that.”

John reached into the bag and pulled it out with a dramatic, “ _Et voila_!”

Sherlock blinked. John tried to read his reaction and failed. So he said, by way of explanation, “It’s a pirate costume.”

“I can see that,” said Sherlock, inscrutable. “Mycroft told you about the pirate thing.”

“I thought you would like it,” said John. “Look at your eye patch!” He walked over to Sherlock to put the eye patch on him. 

“I don’t need an eye patch.”

“Pirates wear eye patches.”

“I wasn’t going to be a pirate with an _eye patch_ , John.”

John finished arranging the eye patch and picked up the dramatic three-cornered hat that had come with the costume. “And a _hat_ ,” he said to Sherlock, winningly, and dropped it on his head and stepped back. “Mmm,” he pronounced. “You look rakish.”

Sherlock looked across at his reflection in the mirror. “Do I?” he asked, dubiously. 

“Think how fantastic you’ll look in the rest of the costume. Look at these boots! Look at this coat! This is a _fashionable_ pirate.”

Sherlock looked at the rest of the costume. John considered this a victory, just this mild interest. He played his trump card. “Think you’ll be able to deduce just as well with one eye covered?”

Sherlock’s one uncovered eye gave him a withering glare. “I’ll deduce _better_ with one eye covered,” he scoffed, then looked back at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted the hat to a ridiculously jaunty angle. 

***

John had his costume picked out, but he refused to tell Sherlock what it was. This meant Sherlock felt entitled to text suggestions to him endlessly. John always left his mobile on vibrate, even when he was seeing patients, because Sherlock’s life was unpredictable, and John lived in fear of missing a text that might read _Help, I’m being kidnapped, save me before I am killed_. Not that Sherlock would ever put it quite that way, John thought. At any rate, his phone vibrated with a text, and John glanced at it in the middle of the speech he was giving Mr. Hodgkins about proper diet.

_Have thought of costume for you. –SH_

John ignored it, giving his full attention to Mr. Hodgkins. Just as he was sending him on his way, his mobile buzzed again. 

_Don’t you want to know what it is? –SH_

John ignored him again, not wanting to get into this with him. He knew Sherlock desperately wanted to know the costume John had picked out, and John so seldom got to keep secrets from Sherlock that he was protecting this one almost viciously. 

_It’s a slutty nurse costume. –SH_

_I am told by the Internet that it’s this year’s most popular costume. –SH_

_You’d look good in it. –SH_

_And, as a doctor, I think you could tell people you’re making some kind of social commentary or some such nonsense. –SH_

_But really, you would look good in it. –SH_

John brought his stethoscope home with him, in case Sherlock was revealing a playing-doctor kink. 

***

_Please tell me you’re not going to be a vampire. –SH_

_Vampires are so overdone, John. –SH_

_The Internet says that you need to put glitter on your body if you’re going to be a vampire. I refuse to sleep in a bed covered in glitter, John. –SH_

_You could bite me if you so desired, however. That might be encouraged. –SH_

***

_You’re not going to try to do something trendy, are you? –SH_

_Trendy doesn’t suit you. –SH_

_No one who wears the jumpers you wear should ever try to do anything trendy. –SH_

***

_A wizard? –SH_

_Robin Hood? –SH_

_An elf? –SH_

_A mime? –SH_

_Some person I’m told is called “Zorro”? –SH_

***

“John, John, John, John, John,” Sherlock chanted, softly, into his ear, pulling him from sleep, but his hand was in a very good place indeed, and John didn’t mind being woken in the middle of the night if Sherlock was going to do it for something fun like this instead of to chase criminals around. 

Sherlock disappeared entirely under the blankets, using his mouth to expertly coax John into sleepy arousal. John put a hand heavily in Sherlock’s hair and closed his eyes and felt too gloriously discombobulated to stop the shallow thrusts of his hips in Sherlock’s direction. The orgasm was lovely and heavenly and fantastic, and John sank into the mattress, drowsily content, immediately feeling sleep swirling back up toward him, and Sherlock, tasting of him, nipped at his lips and murmured, “John. Tell me what you’re going to be for Lestrade’s party.”

John felt one vague tug of irritation, and then he laughed. He laughed so hard that he woke himself fully up, rolling around on the bed while Sherlock looked annoyed, and finally John rolled on top of him and straddled his chest and said, “Very nice try. Best try yet.”

“I don’t know why you just can’t _tell_ me,” retorted Sherlock, belligerently. 

“Because it’s good for you not to get something you want every once in a while. Now, tell me something else you want and I’ll be happy to comply,” he wheedled. 

***

_I know what it is. –SH_

_You’re going to come dressed as my parrot. –SH_

John, confused, actually replied to that text. _You don’t have a parrot._

_Pirates have parrots. –SH_

“Oh, God,” said John, out loud, and tossed the mobile onto his desk. 

When it vibrated with another text, he couldn’t resist looking at what it said.

_I shall call you Polly. –SH_

***

His mobile was blinking _Sherlock_ at him, and for Sherlock to be actually _calling_ him instead of texting him made his eyes widen with alarm. He answered with, “Are you dying?”

“Yes, but not immediately, it shouldn’t be fully accomplished for at least another fifty years or so, by my estimate,” answered Sherlock, without missing a beat. 

“Unless you recklessly get yourself thrown off a building again,” said John, a bit more harshly than he intended. 

Sherlock paused. “Touché,” he offered, finally, which John knew was his version of an olive branch. 

He sighed and rubbed at his temples and wondered if he was ever going to stop sometimes snapping things like that, concluding that, no, probably he would not. “Sorry, but don’t _scare_ me like that. You ring me and my heart goes all in my throat. Is there something wrong?”

“When are you coming home?”

“I’m not. I’m just going to meet you at Lestrade’s. I told you that.”

“You _meant_ that?”

“Of course I meant it.”

“I thought… Seriously?” John could perfectly envision what Sherlock’s pout looked like, over the phone. 

“Yes, seriously. Put on your pirate costume. I’ll find you at the party because I’ll be looking for the sexiest man there.”

“And what will _I_ be looking for?” asked Sherlock, clearly still fishing. 

John grinned out the window of the cab he was in. “Me,” he replied. 

***

The party was more crowded than Sherlock would have supposed. How did Lestrade have so many _friends_? This was, frankly, ridiculous, all of it. He felt absurd in the costume John had procured for him. He wanted to get home right away and get out of it. He couldn’t imagine why he had even put it on. He could have just come to the party without a costume. And faced John’s little crumpled face of disappointment. As it was, John would be delighted he’d worn the costume, and John would, Sherlock knew, with very little persuasion rip it off of him at the earliest opportunity, which was exactly what Sherlock was looking for out of the evening. As soon as he located John. 

“You actually wore a costume!” exclaimed Lestrade, greeting him at the door. 

“Of course I did. I was told it was required.” Sherlock regarded Lestrade critically, lifting his eyebrows. “Big game hunter? Really?”

“I, well, you know,” said Lestrade, eloquently. 

Sherlock decided he wasn’t really interested. “Where’s John? Do you know?”

“He should be around,” answered Lestrade, cagily. 

Sherlock sighed in frustration and gave up on anyone he knew ever being the least bit helpful. With a grim sense of adventure—and thinking he would have preferred to be chasing down a murderer any day—he stepped into the melee of the party…and saw someone he would never have expected to see. 

“Mycroft?” he said, too startled to even bother to hide his incredulity. 

It was clearly Mycroft, wearing an expression that was defiance personified. He was dressed in one of his stupid impeccable suits, his tie still perfectly knotted. Except that the tie was tiger striped. And there was a matching tiger-striped pocket square. And he had a small set of tiger ears poking out of the top of his head. 

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, with a little inclination of his head, as if they were back in Buckingham Palace again. 

“What,” replied Sherlock, “no tiger-striped umbrella?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft snapped, stiffly. 

Sherlock was straining to look behind Mycroft where, yes, that was definitely a _tail_. “Oh my God,” Sherlock realized, and wondered how slow on the bloody uptake he had been not to have realized this ages ago. “Are you his _tiger_?”

“You are hardly one to talk,” retorted Mycroft. “You’re wearing an _eye patch_.”

Sherlock ignored him. “You are! He’s a big game hunter, and you are his tiger! When did this— How long has this—”

“Ask a question, Sherlock, stop stuttering like that,” interrupted Mycroft, and sipped whatever it was he was drinking. 

“Oh,” deduced Sherlock, quickly, “it isn’t going on. You _want_ it to be going on. You coordinated costumes. Has he caught the point of it yet? He isn’t the swiftest, you know.”

“Stop it,” said Mycroft, almost petulantly, and Sherlock was gleeful because he seldom got Mycroft to sound like _him_. 

“I suppose things bode well if he invited you to begin with, but I don’t want to know any further details. Please leave me entirely out of…” Sherlock trailed off because he’d caught sight of…himself. “Out of all of it,” he finished, automatically, and stepped away from Mycroft to get a clearer look at…John, with a ridiculous black wig and a dramatic charcoal wool coat and a blue scarf knotted around his neck. 

“Oh,” said John, catching sight of him and giving him a beaming smile. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you. The hat looks good.” He leaned up to give him a kiss, as if this were a perfectly normal encounter. 

“Your hat looks _terrible_ ,” Sherlock countered, because half-covering the awful black wig was a deerstalker, of all things. 

John looked pleased as punch. “Do you like it?” He stepped back from Sherlock and gave a little twirl. “I’m dressed as Sherlock Holmes. I’ve been getting the most compliments for it. I think I’m going to win the costume contest.” John looked deeply amused. 

Sherlock stared at him. “You look… _ridiculous_. That is not what my _hair_ looks like.”

“Yeah, your hair _was_ the hardest bit to get right, I’ll give you that. The coat suits you better, too. I just look like I’m playing dress-up with my dad’s work clothes. You are much the better Sherlock Holmes.”

“I should hope so,” said Sherlock, trying not to absolutely gape. “This has been your big secret? That you were coming to this silly party dressed as _me_?”

“Well, you never guessed, did you? And you were the one who gave me the idea. Well, when you were sulking about having to dress up, and I said that you dress up all the time, and I thought, ‘Actually, I _could_ dress up as you.’”

Sherlock was silent. He walked a full circle around John. 

“You’re not angry, are you?” John asked, when the circle was complete and Sherlock was back to standing, thoughtful, in front of him. “I only meant to tease you a bit.”

Sherlock reached out and took off the deerstalker and the ridiculous wig. John mussed his hair out of its wig flatness, and Sherlock looked at him, in his Sherlockian coat and Sherlockian scarf, and thought, unexpectedly, that they needed to go somewhere conducive to sex immediately. 

“I am not angry,” he said, answering the question finally. 

“Good.” John smiled in relief. “I thought it might appeal to your narcissistic streak. Hell, who am I kidding? You don’t have a narcissistic streak; you’re just narcissistic, full stop. But it’s okay, I love you for it anyway.”

“Stop talking,” Sherlock told him. 

John lifted his eyebrows. 

Sherlock took a step closer to him and ducked his head so his mouth was next to his ear. “Will you be terribly disappointed if you’re not here to collect your costume-contest win because you’re too busy being shagged to absolute pieces by me?”

“Definitely narcissistic,” said John breathlessly, and took a step back. “Let’s go,” he agreed, with a nod toward the door, and Sherlock took his hand in his and pulled him through the crowd, past where Lestrade was still standing welcoming guests. 

“Hang on,” he protested, “are you two leaving already?”

“Something very urgent has come up,” Sherlock informed him, primly. 

“Sorry, mate,” John said as he followed him out. “It was a great party.”

Sherlock was already hailing a cab, which pulled to a stop in front of him. He opened the door and turned to usher John in, following afterward. 

John turned to him. “Did I see your brother dressed as a tiger in a suit? What’s that supposed to be? A banker tiger?”

“John, that is so not what you need to be thinking about right now,” Sherlock told him, and knocked his ridiculous pirate hat off, the better to snog John in the back of the cab. 

_The end._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [His Tiger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318909) by [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd)




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